From kitchen to camp, Sotheby's to Savile Row, antiques to art, house to hunt, forest to stream, with football, baseball, golf and everything in between, Sporting Classics' Creative Director, Ryan Stalvey lives a life revolving around all things sport and sporting.

From chasing German U-boats to stopping charging lions, running with the bulls to bare fist fighting on the docks of Bimini, war hero and plane crash survivor, Ernest Hemingway was a man who squeezed every ounce from every moment. A remarkable athlete, he was good at nearly any sport he attempted. One can but speculate how his adventurous gusto and overzealous male bravado would have carried over onto the golf links. In this fiction piece rom the premier issue of The Golf Sport, we take a look at what it may have been like to play a round of golf with the Nobel Prize winner, adventurer and larger-than-life legend, Ernest Hemingway.

One thing is for sure, it would have been one hell of a round.

The altercation from the club parking lot was obviously weighing heavy on the broad shoulders of Ernest Hemingway. Apparently, there had been a dispute between himself and the club’s pompous professional, Linwood Haraway. He had bet Hemingway that he couldn’t throw a golf ball over the three-story clubhouse and onto the putting green some ninety-yards away. And, when Hem pulled it off, the spoiled sport Haraway cried foul, accusing Hemingway of taking a running start in order to make the toss. The penalty of which should then forfeit the winnings to Linwood. Of course, none of this was taken lightly by the brazen Hemingway, especially having been called a cheat.

“Linwood, I suppose you’d expect someone to make a throw like that flat-footed? Wager this, you SOB, I bet I can whip your ass!”

Haraway, having been the pugilist pride of Princeton, and not to be disgraced before the club patronage rebutted.“Hemingway, you bastard, let’s have it on, but don’t think I’ll take one on the chin for a coconut like one of your Bimini deckhands.”

By now, quite a crowd had assembled and it took several high-ranking club officers stepping in to restore order.

A few seconds later, the matter eating away at him . . . “that Haraway, you know someday someone is going to . . .”

“Now Hem, take it easy. You called him out, he’s embarrassed, that’s worse on Linwood than a beating.”

“I guess I did rather piss in his Earl Grey,” said Hemingway, mocking in his best English accent, eyes casting an icy stare towards the first fairway where Linwood and his fraternity foursome were now taking their approaches.

“Next on the tee, Hemingway/Beech,” . . . the starter calls out.

Regularly fighting half-ton fish has a way of building up the muscularity of a man’s forearms. And, the way with which Hemingway lashes at the ball is an awesome combination of brutish strength and superb hand-eye coordination, all performed with a graceful, lumbering of movement.

However, Hem, on this occasion, still sweltering from the morning’s spectacle, let loose a swwoooo-thwack, peeling a ferocious slice, out-of-bounds and into the link side community.

“That’s it, I’m out this hole.”

Enough. I know when to leave the big fellow alone.

Over the next thirty or so minutes the tension escalated and my playing partner’s unmannerly lack of conversation and blunt mood was becoming quite awkward to deal with.

Then on three, the dam broke. And after a three-putt from fifteen feet, so did his putter . . . over his knee.

“Shake it off E.,” I pleaded. “Putt with mine, that Bullseye of yours is a piece of shit anyway.”

“Sure, thanks,” Hemingway muttered.

Next hole, righting the ship, he drove the green on the 292-yard par-4. Four-putted for bogey and snapped my putter!

“I’m sorry Walt, I’ll make it up to you,” he grumbled.

Then he perked up, “Tell you what, I’ll send up for drinks! What’ll it be?”

Up to this point I have failed to mention the situation regarding the handling of our clubs. Hemingway, irate at the onset had refused his caddy and carried his own bag. I had employed my usual fine chap, Randolph Nesmith, whom everyone warmly refers to as Smitty.

“Smitty, order up a couple martinis, dry, and a mimosa for Nancy-boy over there.”

“Here’s a fifty, now make it fast and have that fire-haired barmaid bring them out.”

“Yessir Mista Hemingway, yessir!”

We had just finished the seventh when Hildie arrived, carrying both the drinks and a salacious smile. I was not in the proximity of the details, but several flirtatious interchanges later and the next thing I know, I’m babysitting the booze and Hem’s slipping off into the woods with Hildie. Minutes later the two emerge, Hildie adjusting her skirt and Hem with an ear-splitting grin. He sends her own her way, slaps her on the butt, and gives me a wink.

“How’s that mimosa?”

“How was Hildie?” I rebutted.

“Careful Walter. She was a perfect lady.”

I’ll bet she was, I thought to myself.

My fellow Smitty had failed to return, figuring, I guess, Hem’s tip was adequate pay for a day’s loop.

Perhaps it was the refreshing libations, or the voluptuous Hildie, either way the atmosphere had been altered most pleasantly, and the ensuing turn flew by in a melee of marvelous drives, stellar iron play and lively spirits. Then, on twelve, we caught up with Haraway’s group.

White clouds gathered and rolled overhead, contrasted against the cobalt-blue sky. The large kind of clouds that trap the rays of the midday sun and cause a golden light cast highlighting the most subtle of landscape hues. Linwood Haraway, before us in the fairway, executed his pre-shot routine.

Hemingway, vigilant to the opportunity, “Walt, I believe I’m up.”

“Yeah. Uhhm-what? Hem wait!”

Shhhhhhwhaaaaack!

“Shit.”

Hemingway had struck a beauty. The ball flew Haraway and bounded to a halt just before the front bunkers. Linwood threw his arms into the air, berating us with an onslaught of obscenities much too harsh to print here. Ever the instigator, Hemingway marched forward, pounding the ground with each purposeful step, the tactile big cat poising himself for the pounce.

“Now we’ll see who the better man is,” Linwood broadcasted and repeated.

The fight was on.

As exasperated as Hemingway had been earlier, he was now equally as cool. Linwood, fist-drawn and spit-fire, shuffled his feet, gesturing in proper pugilistic manner. Hemingway dove in, dodged a left, blocked a right and delivered a perfect one-two, left jab, right punch, crumbling his prim and polished combatant.

Hem had Linwood by the wig, about to finish him when Haraway’s gang decided interference was in order. I quickly drew my nine iron, backing down the alliance.

“That’s enough Hem, you showed him,” I implored.

“Okay Walter, you’re right.”

Hemingway released the grip of his left hand. Haraway’s eye and Hem’s meaty right paw both already visibly swelling from the collision of fist and flesh.

But as Hemingway turned to walk away, Haraway staggered to his feet, stealthily rushed Hemingway’s blindside and cold-cocked him concisely in the back of the head, knocking the big man to his knees. Haraway plunged in for the kill, of which I halted, once again, with my nine iron.

“It’s okay Walter,” Hem said, as he struggled to regain his footing.

“Nice fight Haraway. Good show.”

“How about we shake on it?”

Albeit reluctantly, the olive branch accepted and the two shook hands.

“Linwood, tell you what, just to show there’s no hard feelings, how about you meet us at the nineteenth, I’ll buy you a drink.”

Surprisingly the rest of the round remained quite civilized.

That is however, with the exception of seventeen.

There is a bridge midway the seventeenth fairway that overlooks Adam’s Creek. It is a majestic setting. The gurgling water trickles under the arched cobblestone trestle.

Hem and I lingered, savoring the scene, engulfed in a moment of natural admiration.

Then we noticed the trout, many trout, and quite sizeable at that.

Of late, there had been an outstanding mayfly hatch, and the maisies were being swept into the shallow, whirling water beneath, an easy feed for the fat brownies. And while I was transfixed by the tranquility of the scene below, Hemingway had sneaked off to his golf bag, returning with a stowaway, his faithful Thompson machine gun.

“Hem, there must be a dozen seven-pounders down there.”

“Hem? Hem??”

Ratat!

Ratat!

Rat-Atatatatatatat-tat!

Rat-Atatatattatatatat tat, Rat-Attatatatatatat!

“Dammit Hemingway, what the hell!”

Hemingway sheepishly grinned.

“That damn Thompson is going to get you into trouble before it’s over!”

“Now Walter, quit being a party pooper and help me fetch the fish before the ranger comes around.”

Sure enough, three six-pound brown trout, all headshot. Two other casualties, but both a bloody mess, and punched gill to tail.

A handshake and a pat on the back put an end to the round’s formalities. And, despite the fiasco of the day, smelling like fish, and putting the final fourteen holes with my two iron, I had managed to card a 78, one of my finest scores.

“Walt, join me for a drink?” Hemingway asked, blithesome from the triumphs of the day.

“You bet,” I replied, interested in whether Linwood had the nerve to take Hem up on the same offer from earlier.

Linwood Haraway was waiting at the bar.

“Hemingway, I believe you owe me a drink,” boasted Linwood.

“I believe I do, Haraway, what’ll it be?”

“I’ll take a g&t with a pair of rocks.”

“Bartender, one gin and tonic, and make mine a martini, dry, preferably in a cold stem. Make it two, the other for my partner here,” his heavy hand swatting me on the shoulder.

“Thanks Hem.”

“Don’t mention it Walt. Hell of a round.”

“Yes it was. Yes it was.”

Several sips into our cocktails and Linwood began to mouth off.

“How’s that crown of your’s Ernie? Feeling a bit off tilt?”

Whhoooo-Op!

Hemingway, from a seated position with drink in hand cracked Linwood with a hard right, square in the cheek!

So nice to come home to, so nice by the fire.

Every corner of artist Michael Coleman's studio is composed as a picture, replete with treasures from his travels and hunting trips around the world.

A man's study or library is a reflection of his soul. It is where his innermost being is released and he is transposed into a state of ultimate comfort and relaxation. It should be a place for both inspiration and refuge. A place to kick back with a toddy and a 1st edition African Game Trails or the latest issue of Sporting Classics. Here are some rooms where they got it right. Some famous, others fabricated, but all ready for the silk robe, slippers and Miles Davis on the phonograph.

A trophy fish carving by renowned artisan Ellen McCaleb adds to the sophistication of this sportsman's study.

Accurate and dependable, Merkel has established itself as a name you can trust. With the introduction of the new take-down RX Helix rifle, form now follows function. The Helix has the look of an Old World beauty combined with the sleek lines we have come to expect from modern firearms. New innovations like a straight-pull bolt-action and a bolt head ratio of two-to-one places a premium on rapid-fire precision. This firearm is designed to be deadly accurate and lightning fast. It is available in three action lengths and 12 calibers. $4,000 www.merkel-usa.com (Photograph by Ron Spomer)

Ideas and inspiration are certain to take flight from the cockpit of Restoration Hardware's Aviator Wing Desk. Inspired by streamlined World War II fighter planes this desk is a shining swoop of metal. Its shape mimics the bent wing of a plane. Poised for take-off, it features a polished aluminum patchwork exterior accented with steel screws, built around a solid hardwood frame. $2,195 www.restorationhardware.com

1. Have a cup of eggnog and kick back with a 1894 first edition copy of The Wild Beasts, Birds and Reptiles of the World and relive P.T. Barnum's account of his explorations and adventures while pursuing animals for both sport and his menagerie. $45-$200. 2. For around $1,300 the casual, yet elegant Invicta Pro Diver Chronograph Elemental Watch in wood & steel is half James Bond, half Bear Grylls. 3. Elegant styling makes the Swarovski Optik Leather Pocket Tyrol Binoculars perfect for any occasion from the opera to the Okavango. $969 www.orvis.com4. Carry a Dave Hoover tackle box on your next fishing trip and trout will leap into the boat from respect. Okay, probably not, but he will be sure to be the envy of all of his fishing buddies. If you can find one that is. Dave has since retired and locating one of these gems can seem as elusive as catching a new world-record largemouth. $400-$1100. 5. Even Old Tom Morris would've been smitten with the 61 Cirac Stand Golf Bag in King Croc by Belding Golf bags. Around $600. 6. A knife for all necessities, the Wenger Giant Swiss Army Knife V1.0 weighs in at 2 pounds with 87 implements and 141 functions. $1,000-1,600 www.wengerna.com7. Care to go a few rounds? If so the Seletti Boxitalia Punching Bag & Boxing Gloves are for you. Made from vintage-style brown leather, these professional-level training tools sport a classic design that will dress up any room from the penthouse office to the man cave. $110-$325. 8. The Beccaccia (woodcock) is a hunting jacket cool enough for James Dean. Waxed-cotton with front-loading game bag. $314 www.maremmano.it

Left to right: Swing for the fences like they did back in the day with this 1880's style vintage bat. Hand-made of professional quality northern ash wood, this bat will go the distance. $139.95 www.redenvelope.comIn a small village at the foot of the Black Forest, a few dedicated master craftsmen have been using their talent and expertise to create the most beautiful crystal in the world. So nice to come home to, so nice by the fire, Queen Lace Crystal 18 oz. Double Old Fashion is perfect for the man of distinction. $250 www.queenlacecrystal.comVersatile Lemon Peel baseballs are as perfectly suited for stocking stuffers as they are for streetball, pepper and stickball. $34 www.huckberry.com